


Weary Hour

by BlackKnightSatellite



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dialogue, Episode: s02e07 Yakimono, Kissing, M/M, Pointless, Season/Series 02, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-17 22:58:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14840816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackKnightSatellite/pseuds/BlackKnightSatellite
Summary: A re-imagining of the scene in Yakimono in which Will confronts Hannibal.





	Weary Hour

**Author's Note:**

> Hey. Sorry to those of you who were/are waiting for an update to Baseline, and to everyone who has commented on either of my fics and not gotten a reply. A short answer to why I kind of vanished is that I needed to take a break, and will be resuming now but slowing my roll maybe? Or being okay posting things I’m kind of uncertain of, because I’ve been writing but feeling like it goes nowhere. But maybe someone will enjoy something pointless anyway? This would be such a pointless thing; Will goes to Hannibal’s house after being released from the BSHCI but he doesn’t pull a gun on him this time. Lots of dialogue borrowed from the show, particularly Yakimono. I’m leaving this as a one shot with no resolution. Plans after this include: going back to edit out typos of existing stories, picking back up with the Bladerunner AU, some more pointless what if scenarios that are short so I can learn to be brief, and something longer and with a ghost. And of course, slowly going back to reply to all the lovely people who left me comments before; thank you so much. And thank you for reading. <3

 

 

 

“You can't expect to see him and survive

You'll swallow his tongue of thorns

His mouth, dripping with flies

In his glorious kingdom of fire

...

I don’t want to die a lonely man”

\- The Cry of Mankind, My Dying Bride

 

 

It’s a moment for violence. He thinks of how the gun in his pocket would fit perfectly against his palm, the easy way his fingers would embrace the cool metal curves. He thinks of how the other man’s eyes would glint with terror even if his features failed to shift. Thinks of how he’d press the barrel against Hannibal’s temple, the way the skin there would bear the pressure, the hard skull beneath waiting to be shattered. He tries not to think of it.

 

He thinks of it.

 

It is a moment for violence, but Will hasn’t come to enact violence. Or perhaps he has - after all, there’s the pistol concealed in the folds of his jacket - but at this last moment he’s decided against it. The firearm remains unreached for in his pocket as the sound of footsteps approach the kitchen from the front door.

 

Hannibal walks into the dark kitchen, and Will watches, his breath frozen. It’s been a long time since he had the opportunity to watch Hannibal without the other man’s consent or awareness. In fact, he’s tempted to think that the opportunity has never presented itself before now, but the memory of a hospital room at the beginning of their acquaintance, of Hannibal’s sleep-slackened features as he dozed beside the comatose girl in the tight white bed, drifts to the surface of his memory like air bubbles rising to break against the meniscus of a lake. Hannibal pauses, his hand on the refrigerator door. Will watches his shoulders tighten, barely enough to be noticed.

 

“The same unfortunate aftershave,” Hannibal murmurs, voice infuriatingly calm, “too long in the bottle.” He opens the fridge, and bathes the two of them in the cold glow of the fluorescent bulb within.Their eyes meet before Will can prevent it; there is nothing between them, nothing with which to protect himself. Glasses, he remembers, and tilts his chin so that the rim of the glasses partially blocks his vision. It’s a feeble shield. This feels wrong, unbearably dangerous, being on the same side of the bars. Like stepping into the lion’s cage in the zoo. A sudden intense vulnerability. Will does his best to ignore the way his heart shudders with exhilaration. 

 

“Our last kitchen conversation was cut short by Jack Crawford,” he forces himself to say, then has to stop because he finds himself inexplicably breathless.

 

“Picking up where we left off?” Hannibal’s tone is light, unbothered, as if Will is an old friend dropping by unannounced for a chat. Maybe that’s what’s happening. Will isn’t sure yet. “If memory serves, I was asking whether you thought it would feel good to kill me.” He pauses, just a beat. “You’ve given that some thought.”

 

Will shifts, drops his gaze to his feet. “You wanted me to embrace my urges,” he says, and sees Hannibal’s shoes move a step closer. He can feel the cold air from the open refrigerator, and it seems to him stupid, suddenly, that they haven’t just turned on the light, but are conducting this conversation by the light of Hannibal’s thawing fridge. It seems fitting, though, in more ways than one. That this conversation should happen in full view of evidence of Hannibal’s guilt, if those ribs are anything to go off of. That it’s so unnecessarily destructive for no greater reason than the aesthetic. That it leaves Will feeling cold. “I was just following the urges I kept down for so long.”

 

“You never answered my question,” Hannibal says, stepping closer again. Will’s fingers twitch with the instinct to reach for the pocket of his jacket, but he keeps his hands by his sides. He resists the urge to put something between them. “How would killing me make you feel?”

 

“Righteous,” Will says, “and...alone.””

 

He feels Hannibal’s hand brushing the side of his face, and looks up in time to see his glasses slipping off his nose and into the palm of Hannibal’s hand. He can’t look away quick enough, and finds himself locked in Hannibal’s stare like a rabbit in a snare. The older man’s face looks deceptively sincere. “Did you miss me, when you thought you’d succeeded in orchestrating my death?”

 

Will swallows. Hannibal is standing too close, filling up more space than should be possible, like some great dark shadow spreading over Will’s vision. “Having been known, as only you can know me, how could I do otherwise?” Will asks. “How return to a world where no one knows me, without missing what only you could provide?” Hannibal’s eyes feel like flames. Will delivers himself willingly now, into the pyre of that gaze, tilts his chin defiantly. He’s not going to feel ashamed, he’s not. Not for desiring something Hannibal’s worked so hard to ensure he’ll crave.

 

Hannibal evaluates him, expression the same unbroken facade of neutrality. As the silence stretches between them, Will does his best not to close his eyes, though the urge to do so is overwhelming. As if his blindness could provide a screen between them, a protective shield of darkness, when the matter separating their minds is as thin as his eyelid. His drooping lids fly open at the brush of Hannibal’s knuckles over his throat. It’s an appreciative touch, and his eyes follow his fingers over the curve of Will’s neck. “Tell me Will,” Hannibal says, his voice as casual as if they are sitting in his office discussing one of his cases, “do you still want to kill me?”

 

Will doesn’t have to answer; he’s certain the dilation of his pupils is all the answer Hannibal needs. He doesn’t smile, but Will can sense his pleasure. “How would you do it?” Hannibal asks. “Not with that gun you’re carrying, clearly. Maybe arranging assassinations suits you better.”

 

Will shakes his head. His breath is a gulp of air audible between them. “If we’re both on the same side of the bars, I’d prefer to take matters into my own hands.”

 

“With your own hands?”

 

Hannibal is still standing close enough for Will to smell him. The proximity feels smothering, now. “Yes,” he confirms, voice scarcely more than a whisper.

 

Hannibal’s smile is the curve of a beast’s horn, Will thinks, sharp and subtle. “What’s stopping you?” he asks, and it sounds half an invitation, half a challenge. “Afraid of being alone with yourself again?”

 

“I’m curious,” Will answers, shifting on his feet as Hannibal steps closer again. The only reason they aren’t touching now is through deliberate choice, a constant awareness of how close their skin comes to brushing each time they move.It does something awful to Will’s equilibrium. “Why me? Why Miriam? What does the Chesapeake Ripper want with us?”

 

Hannibal blinks, slow and deliberate across the scant distance between them. “You think if you kill me you’ll never discover it.”

 

Will laughs, the sound sharp and bitter. “Yes,” he says, “I do think that.” Because you’re the Chesapeake Ripper, he wants to add. He knows Hannibal can’t risk admitting it, can’t risk the possibility Will is wearing a wire or pocketing a recording device, a la Freddie Lounds. Still, the circumlocutions and denials feel beneath them both. “You might have to lie about this,” Will says, “but I don’t.”

 

For the first time, Hannibal’s expression shifts, just for a moment, a change as quick as the shifting reflection of light on water, but Will is certain he sees the flicker of a smile. “You certainly don’t.”

 

Maybe it’s that ephemeral smile, or the fact that the tension between them is so thick Will feels smothered by it. Maybe it’s just that their terse dialogue has reached an inevitable tipping point, at which there is nothing - no witty rejoinder or bitter accusation - left to say. Maybe it is all these things, plus the ongoing strangeness of finding himself face to face with Hannibal with nothing in between to protect either one of them. Whatever the catalyst, Will can no longer maintain the rigid stillness that’s been keeping them apart. He moves, feeling like gun powder igniting behind a bullet. He pushes forward, and slams into Hannibal with a huff, pitching them off balance in the small space. Hannibal catches himself on the counter with a grunt, releasing the refrigerator door as he does so that it swings wide and remains open. In the frigid glow, Hannibal’s face is tense but unafraid. There’s a glimmer in his eyes - excitement, Will thinks, or curiosity.

 

For a moment he’s not sure how to proceed - the urge to crush Hannibal’s elegant throat beneath his hands is so strong he almost sways with the force of it. But then Hannibal’s hand is on the side of his face again, fingers brushing soft against the cut of his cheekbone, and Will feels the tension bleeding out of him. It is as if he is a wild beast, Will thinks, ready to strike when suddenly tamed. Hannibal’s eyes are luminous, glinting with the cool blue light of the refrigerator. His hand comes to rest with fingers splayed over the curve of Will’s neck just below the skull, as if he’s cradling Will’s brain stem in a firm protective grip. Will imagines a darkness, inky tentacles dancing from Hannibal’s fingertips and into his skull, black ropes infecting his brain.

 

Will can think of no words to assign to the feeling burning through him, and so he moves forward wordlessly, taking Hannibal’s mouth in his own without announcement or request. There is nothing gentle about it. Will thinks of devouring, of being devoured, of mutually assured destruction and the taste of Hannibal’s mouth against his. Hannibal’s hand tightens on the back of his neck, and Will thinks, with a blinding sense of shame, that Hannibal is trying to fight off the unwanted advance. But when he withdraws to give Hannibal space, the other man just rushes forward, pushing Will back into the marble island countertop. Hannibal keeps one hand buried in the curls at the base of his skull, cupping his neck to draw him closer into the kiss. He spreads his other hand palm down on the counter beside Will so that he can lean over him, seeming suddenly so much taller, wider, more solid, more substantial, even as Will feels himself dissolving into smoke and shadows. He does his best not to keen into the kiss.

 

“Why me?” he asks, breathless, when Hannibal’s mouth pulls off of his to explore the side of his face. He feels the kisses falling over his cheek, jaw, chin, temple, mapping a constellation around his silhouette. Will raises a hand to tangle in the short hair at the back of Hannibal’s head, tugging lightly for emphasis. “Why me, huh?”

 

“You mean,” Hannibal breathes into his ear, then presses a firm kiss to the place behind his earlobe, “what does the Chesapeake Ripper want with you? What makes you special?” Hannibal’s breath teases along his throat, his words muffled against Will’s skin. He can feel the brush of teeth against his throat. “There is so very much about you which can be called special, Will.”

 

Will turns his head, seeking Hannibal’s mouth with his own. “What do you want with me?” he asks into the kiss, speaking directly into Hannibal’s hot, eager mouth. There’s more he wants to ask, but he can’t make the words come. Instead, Will settles for snaking one hand under the back of Hannibal’s shirt and lightly scraping his blunt nails along the skin there.

 

Hannibal grimaces, shifting against him, and Will realizes three things in rapid succession. The first thing he realizes is that the gun, still in his jacket pocket, has been digging uncomfortably - and probably unsafely - into both their sternums. The second thing he realizes is that, in shifting to a more comfortable position, Hannibal has - inadvertently? - brought his thigh up between Will’s legs in such a way that the hard length of his erection is pushed up against Will’s thigh. And the final realization Will comes to in this moment of epiphanies is that his own stiff cock is pressed firmly against Hannibal’s thigh in turn. He takes a moment to breathe through the time it takes to process all these new stimuli. Hannibal gazes back at him from inches away, eyes heavy lidded, lips slack with pleasure.

 

There’s a thundering in his ears that Will can’t place at first. It sounds like hoof beats, as if a galloping horde approaches, or some horse footed monster trampling towards them. In this world of wonders, even the fantastic seems possible. But it is only his heart, pounding a deafening rhythm within the confines of his chest. He feels light, like a body floating in fluid, dangerously weightless, as if only Hannibal’s body, pinning him in place, prevents him from drifting up to stick in the corner of the ceiling. Will imagines himself glowering down like a malevolent ghost haunting Hannibal’s kitchen. God only knows what other spirits abide here already.

 

“What do you want with me?” Will asks again, realizing too late how suggestive the words sound. His voice sounds expressionless to his own ears - shockingly so, given the intensity of emotion he can feel welling within him. Staring at Hannibal’s lax features, Will wonders about the emotional depth of which the man might be capable. Will’s found little evidence of Hannibal’s heart, but perhaps it’s there, beneath the calm exterior.

 

And Hannibal’s exterior is very calm, in this moment, despite the redness of his kissed and bitten lips and unthinkably mussed hair (and despite the hard length of flesh Will can feel digging into his thigh in a way that has to be intentional). He’s not expressionless, no, but calm. A stranger might describe him as expressionless, but Will can see the subtle tilt of his lips, bespeaking satisfaction. The cat who got the canary. Will’s heart flutters winglike in the nest of his ribs. Hannibal isn’t answering him, which is disconcerting, if only because it allows Will time to consider the full lunacy of what he’s currently doing. A day ago he was dreaming of splitting Hannibal’s face open under his fists. He’s thinking of it right now and the image and the rush of elated rage it stirs in him do frighteningly little to ease the force of his arousal.

 

At last, Hannibal gives an answer so characteristically frustrating that it makes Will nostalgic for the days when he found refuge in Hannibal’s friendly conversations. “Perhaps a better question to ask,” Hannibal says, “is what you want with me. After all,” he continues, rocking his hips forward the barest fraction of an inch, “I’m sure you already possess a working theory of my desires.”

 

“It’s an evolving theory,” Will states. “But fine. What do I want with you, Dr. Lecter?”

 

He wants the words to sound threatening. He succeeds only at sounding flirtatious.

 

Hannibal’s eyes glimmer across the cold dimness with pleasure. “You want to kill me,” he says, “but you won’t.” He reads the challenge in Will’s look. “I know because I haven’t been able to kill you, despite my best judgment. You make me take risks, Will.” Will can feel the heat of exhaled air on Hannibal’s sigh. “For that alone, I should’ve killed you long ago.

 

“You want the same thing I want from you,” Hannibal says, his voice soft, “you don’t want to be alone anymore. You didn’t realize how it hurt until the pain stopped.”

 

“Knowing you is pain,” Will spits. Hannibal smiles.

 

“To prevent that greater pain,” he answers, “that loneliness that preceded me, all lesser pains may be borne.”

 

“Beverly wasn’t a lesser pain,” Will’s words drip with vitriol now, and he shoves against Hannibal’s shoulders. The other man stumbles backwards, somehow still managing to appear graceful as Will backs him against the counter closest to the open fridge. Will’s skin prickles to goose flesh, from the cold or his own overwhelming emotion. “Abigail wasn’t lesser. You think I won’t kill you because nothing would hurt worse than missing you?”

 

“Then,” Hannibal replies coolly, “why haven’t you?” 

 

For a long second Will doesn’t reply. He’s certain Hannibal can feel the frenzied tattoo of his heart; Will can feel the deep steady beat of Hannibal’s heartbeat where their chests are pressed together. Finally, he has to look away from that predatory gaze, and he presses his face against the side of Hannibal’s neck with a desperate groan. “I can’t kill you,” yet, he thinks, “not now I finally find you interesting.”

 

And then Hannibal is kissing him, and he’s kissing back despite every rational and sane part of himself. He has every reason to put his fist through Hannibal’s lips, but instead he pushes his tongue past them, tasting the sharp tips of Hannibal’s teeth. All his instincts tell him to reach for the gun, but instead he fists his hands in the luxurious fabric of Hannibal’s jacket. It feels like a fight, as much as an embrace, difficult to tell how much of the passion he feels is rage. He only knows his skin is burning, his blood boiling within him, heated by the touch of Hannibal’s lips, the soft sound of Hannibal exhaling against his mouth.

 

It won’t progress further than this, Will knows. Not yet. Neither would give the other the satisfaction of seeing him debased, staining his pants like a teenager, and this fiery spontaneity could not sustain a more mannerly sojourn to the upstairs bedroom, a proper navigation of clothing and the decorum of desire. Sooner than he’d like, Will knows he’ll have to step away from this for now.

 

But it’s Hannibal who brings the action to a halt, pushing back on Will shoulders and dipping his head to break the ongoing kiss. Will’s lips graze his forehead, and Will feels the soft silk of Hannibal’s hair against his mouth, smells the sharp floral notes of Hannibal’s shampoo.

 

“Why did you come here tonight, Will?” Hannibal asks, when Will has pulled back enough for them to look each other in the eyes again. It makes Will lightheaded.

 

“I need to confront how I feel about you,” he says, “I think it’s better if I do that directly.”

 

Hannibal’s expression might be a smile - their position casts shadows across his face that the frigid illumination does little to dissipate. For a moment Will expects Hannibal to probe further and ask Will exactly how it is he feels about him, and Will dreads the question because he has no clear answer. It’s not a clear emotion. Rather, he feels choked by a mixture of fear, desire, betrayal, anger, compulsion, curiosity, and something stronger and more dangerous lurking below all else. Something that doesn’t let him reach for his weapon, something that stays his hands from vengeance. It’s the part of him that felt empty and abandoned in the hour he believed his plot to kill Hannibal by proxy had succeeded.

 

But Hannibal doesn’t ask. Instead, he reaches up to touch Will’s face, again, his fingers warm against the cool surface of Will’s cheek. Will lets his eyes close, a small relief from the intensity of eye contact. It’s easier to enjoy the caress - he realizes bitterly how infrequently he experiences touch like this - without having to see the intent and inquisitive look Hannibal wears. In the darkness of his thoughts he can imagine all of this is normal, all of this is fine, and the feeling welling within him is only lust, desire for flesh and not blood. With his eyes closed, it’s equally simple to imagine Hannibal’s neck bending beneath his thumbs, Hannibal’s bones breaking under his feet and fists.

 

He lifts a hand without opening his eyes, and closes his fingers over Hannibal’s broad wrist. He feels the man’s touch still as Will brushes his fingers over the deep, stitched shut wound in Hannibal’s forearm. When he opens his eyes he expects to find anger, but finds only delight.

 

“Speaking as your therapist, Will,” Hannibal says, “I think you are making a wise decision by choosing to face that which disturbs you. After all, the unexamined life is not worth living.”

 

Will snorts. “Oh, I certainly don’t feel unexamined, doctor.”

 

“You see a great deal,” Hannibal answers his jibe audaciously. “You look at the world and see its secrets revealed to you, all its hidden terrors and beauties. But can you bear to turn that gaze inward, detective? Do you dare search your own head and heart for the damning evidence you fear you’ll find there?”

 

“I know who I am,” Will bites. He shoves at Hannibal’s shoulder with one hand, but holds his wounded wrist with the other, as if his body itself is unable to decide how to respond to the problem of Hannibal Lecter. Being close to him is like looking over the edge of some very high place; his fear is as much of jumping as it is of falling.

 

His fingers move jerkily, like an automaton’s, as he forces himself to release Hannibal’s arm and step away from him. Already, Will feels the absence of his touch. He wonders how long it will take for them to wind their way back to this position, for surely this has only been a foretaste of the feast to come, a preview.

 

“I’d like to resume my therapy,” Will says. He remembers Hannibal’s hands holding his face firmly in place, remembers one strobing light in the darkness and Hannibal’s voice booming through his head. Therapy. “Who knows how beneficial your care may prove now that my brain is no longer inflamed.”

 

Hannibal tilts his head in mute acquiescence. “Your usual appointment is open, if you’d like.”

 

Will responds only with the slight incline of his head, then steps backwards, sinking into the shadows beyond the reach of the refrigerator light. When Hannibal at last flicks the light switch he finds he is alone.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
